


dissections and distractions

by boom_goes_the_canon



Series: rationalism and Romanticism [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bickering, Canon Era, Dissections, Established Relationship, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Prying Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26175451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: His roommate gives the letter a flourish. “‘My dearest Combeferre, I long for your warm embrace in the cold of the night—’” He cuts himself off. “Combeferre?”“Yes?” Combeferre will never live this down. He will have to flee to England, or maybe the Americas. They like Frenchmen in America, right?“Who is sending you scandalous letters at three in the morning?” His roommate sounds downright gleeful as he fans himself with the letter. “Oh my.”
Relationships: Combeferre/Jean Prouvaire
Series: rationalism and Romanticism [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1890667
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	dissections and distractions

It’s past midnight, and Combeferre is still examining the leg he acquired at the morgue when something crashes through his window.

His roommate, thankfully, does nothing more remarkable than swear. Unlike his previous roommate who would have thrown whatever he was dissecting across the room, out the window, and into the street. Combeferre is truly grateful.

“What was that?” his roommate says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Combeferre grunts and holds up the leg. “I am in the middle of something.” Indeed, there seemed to be a malformation in the kneecap of the leg that demanded further study. He palpates it with his fingers.

“Right, right.” He yawns. “The toes are falling off—you really shouldn’t wave it around too much.”

Combeferre sets the leg down reluctantly. He quite likes waving it around.

“What’s this?” his roommate says, bending to pick up the thing that came through the window. “Oh, it’s a rock.”

It’s a testament to how interesting the leg was that Combeferre simply ignores it. “Throw it back then.” Maybe they’ll be lucky, and it’ll hit whoever threw it on the way down.

“It’s wrapped in paper.”

Combeferre shrugs. He’s just made his first incision and the kneecap definitely has some sort of abnormal growth. “You can keep the paper.”

He hears rustling. His roommate clears his throat. “It has something written on it. Ahem. My dearest…” He pauses, squints at the paper. “You never told me your first name was—”

“—Give me _that_ ,” Combeferre hisses, making a grab for the letter. His roommate evades him with ease and shoves him back.

“Fine, I won’t say it out loud.” His roommate gives the letter a flourish. “‘My dearest Combeferre, I long for your warm embrace in the cold of the night—’” He cuts himself off. “ _Combeferre_?”

“Yes?” He will never live this down. He will have to flee to England, or maybe the Americas. They like Frenchmen in America, right?

“Who is sending you scandalous letters at three in the morning?” His roommate sounds downright gleeful as he fans himself with the letter. “Oh my.”

“Shut up.” He makes another grab for the letter, and is again unsuccessful.

“Let’s see the signature.” His roommate flips the letter, runs his finger down the looping calligraphy. “‘A thousand burning kisses alight with the flames of my passion, Jehan.’” His roommate smacks him on the head with the letter. “Who is this Jehan?”

Combeferre isn’t exactly proud of what he does next. He tackles his roommate, grabs the letter, and leaves to go find the man who threw a rock through his window.

Jehan isn’t exactly hard to find. He’s on the street, dressed in a truly horrifying banyan with pink and green patches, and Spanish breeches in all the colors of the rainbow. He is barefoot too, his socks and shoes visible in a heap a few doors down. His face lights up when Combeferre approaches, which is uncalled for.

“Combeferre! I hoped you’d come—”

“—inside. Now. Before you catch your death.”

Combeferre’s voice brooks no argument, and yet Jehan argues anyway. “But I want to catch my death, Combeferre! Think of what I’d look like if I had consumption.” He drapes himself into Combeferre’s arms.

“You’d look ghastly and you wouldn’t be able to speak for coughing. You would have pains in your chest and be feverish. In the late stages of your disease you will cough blood and sputum.”

Jehan pouts. “But I’d be _pale_.”

“You’re _already_ pale.” He cannot believe he’s having this conversation at 3:32 in the morning in the street, with a barefoot Romantic hell-bent on catching wasting diseases, when he could be dissecting an interesting leg in the comfort of his rooms.

“But I could faint.”

“You do faint.”

“Spoilsport,” Jehan says, and stops his ridiculous attempts to melt all over Combeferre’s arms. “Very well, take me to your rooms. Did you read my letter?”

“My roommate read it. Well, part of it. Out loud.”

Jehan’s mouth goes round and his cheeks flush. “I did not expect that,” he admits.

“Think harder on your actions,” Combeferre says, trying to sound authoritative. “And let’s go inside, for heaven’s sake.”

Jehan sighs, frowns, and drags his feet, but he does follow Combeferre into the building and up the stairs, so that is progress, at least. “Did you like the rock, at least? I picked it out especially for you.”

“Then you threw it through my window.”

“How else were you supposed to get it?” Jehan looks horribly offended, and Combeferre would laugh if he wasn’t charmed against his will. “Really, Combeferre, it wasn’t unreasonable.”

“You could have given it to me in the morning,” Combeferre tries.

“How boring. You’re lucky I like you, monsieur.” Jehan tilts his head up for a kiss, and practically flounces when Combeferre obliges. “But you will look at that rock?”

“I promise. And I’ll read the letter too.”

“Good. Now introduce me to this roommate of yours.”

“You are making gossips of all my acquaintances,” Combeferre grouses, and he opens the door to his room.

His roommate pounces on them immediately, and Jehan yelps. Combeferre puts his hand over Jehan’s mouth. It would not do to drag more people into this.

“This is my roommate. He pries way too much,” Combeferre says, by way of explanation. His roommate does not look the least bit repentant.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s delightful,” Jehan says. “I’m Jean Prouvaire, but I go by—”

“—Jehan, yes. The letter said so.” Combeferre’s roommate grins. “Combeferre has told me absolutely _nothing_ about you.”

Jehan blushes. “Well, he’s told me nothing about you either.”

Combeferre groans. Everyone ignores him.

“So, tell me, how did respectable, _rational_ Combeferre get embroiled in an affair with a Romantic?”

Jehan looks proud. “I seduced him with good literature.”

“It was not good literature,” Combeferre says, automatically.

“He wrote me _essays_ ,” Jehan confides.

“Oh my. That’s serious.”

Jehan’s expression is dreamy. “He was so _irrational._ ”

“That’s enough,” Combeferre says, firmly. His roommate is already going to milk this incident for weeks, and he doesn’t need that in his life, thank you very much. Jehan grins and undermines his point quite effectively by kissing him on the cheek and then leaving abruptly. It’s only polite to stare after him, when not given the option of a goodbye.

“Oh, Combeferre, Combeferre,” his roommate says, wagging a finger in the air. “You never told me of this relationship of yours.”

Combeferre ignores him, and feels justified in doing so. Between his roommate and Courfeyrac, he is never going to get a moment’s peace ever again. He chooses instead, to put Jehan’s letter in a prized place in his encyclopedia, and hunt for his lost scalpel.

“No, really, tell me what happened.” His roommate sprawls on his belly, resting his chin on one hand. “Is it serious? Have you had a talk with him about moths yet? Wait, have you written him a letter in hieroglyphics?” He gasps. “Have you attended a scientific lecture together?”

“Several, actually.”

His roommate’s eyes widen.

“We attended a meeting of writers to express strong feelings for Nature, Liberty, and the Sublime. It was very melodramatic.”

“Is the world ending? I feel like the world should be ending.”

“It’s not ending, I assure you,” Combeferre says. “We saw it just last morning. Now, I need to get back to my leg.”

“Well, it hasn’t gone anywhere,” his roommate says, pointing at his desk.

Combeferre nods, and picks his scalpel up from the floor, and turns to go back to his work.

“And I put the rock on your desk. I thought it might interest you.”

There are times when Combeferre hates his roommate. This is not one of those times.


End file.
